Highly Illegal Activities
by LaufeysonChild
Summary: What would have happened if John had found Sherlock chained up in the hotel room, and had plans of his own? Reviews are always welcome! Possibly more chapters to come!
1. Of Hotels and Handcuffs

**Author's Note: Hey, guys! So, this is my first Johnlock. In fact, it's my first fanfiction, so be gentle, and please inform me of any grammatical mistakes I may have made. One can only proofread so many times..**

**As you may have guessed, it's set during the hotel scene in the first movie. This is just the beginning of what I intend to be a multi-chaptered fic, so please review and tell me what you'd like to see come! And guys, it's rated M for a reason. if you don't like smuty slashy sexiness, don't read! Now, without any further ado, I give you JohnLock. Enjoy!**

It was early in the morning on a Saturday. Sherlock had gotten himself into another one of his predicaments, this one a bit stranger than the previous. He found himself to have been stripped naked and bound using handcuffs to the bedpost in a hotel room. Of course, he had only faint clues as to how he got there, although he had nearly no recollection of the previous night's endeavours. He remembered drinking wine. Correction: he remembered sipping wine. He must have been drugged to have ended up in this position, because he decidedly would not have ended up there willingly.

As he came to, he realised he, thankfully, was alone. Groggily, he looked around the room. He looked to familiarise himself with his surroundings, but as he regained rational thought he looked for a means to escape. He saw his clothes neatly folded on the table opposite him. He then vaguely remembered being stripped. It was by a woman, definitely by a woman. He had the worst feeling that one Ms. Adler was involved. Yes, now he remembers. He was gaining consciousness as she was leaving. She had placed the key to the handcuffs beneath a pillow that was in between his legs. He passed out again sometime during the night.

With no use of his arms and little use of his legs (which, by now, were numb due to lack of blood flow), Holmes knew there was no way he could get out without help.

It was then that the maid walked in to do her morning cleaning. She walked in and went straight for the bed, fresh linens in hand. She looked up and saw Sherlock and screamed, dropping the sheets.

"Madam, I need you to remain calm," he said, trying to assure her and keep her in the room to aid him, "and trust me, I am a professional." He tried to make his voice sound as, well, professional as possible. "Beneath this pillow lies the key to my release."

Of course, she ran away screaming. Sherlock hung his head in slight frustration.

"That's not what I meant," he said to himself, realising his ill-considered diction.

Sherlock let his mind wander. He began to think of his partner-in-crime, John Watson. The two had been working together for years now, and if anyone truly knew Sherlock, it was John. Sherlock thought fondly of the man, perhaps too fondly, some might say. Holmes found himself thinking of the doctor in ways a man shouldn't think of another. He thought of the way it might feel to run his fingers through is hair, or what it would be like if John kissed him. What it would feel like to have the doctor's rough stubble against his own, lips crashing in synchronized movement...

Sherlock shook his head to snap out of it. He couldn't be thinking of this! Such activities were highly illegal! Not that he was one to care about the law, but he'd prefer not to be lynched. After putting his mind away from such thoughts, it would be a long day of contemplating how he's allowed this to happen to himself before someone else finally found him. Day was fast turning to night, and the room was dimly lit by the fading sunlight.

Watson, worried about his dear drunken detective, had found out where Holmes was last seen and come searching for him.

He entered the room nearly running, and stopped before Sherlock, cocking his head slightly.

"I...how...wh...Holmes..." he stammered, massaging his forehead in a mix of relief, frustration, and shock.

"Ah, hello, Watson, glad you could join me," said Sherlock almost cheerily. "Do help me, won't you?"

Watson sighed. He headed for the table, assuming the key to be with Sherlock's clothes.

"Ahem," Sherlock said. When Watson turned around, Sherlock jerked his head toward the pillow. Watson raised his eyebrows at him and gave a puzzled look.

"It's over here," Sherlock said.

"Really?" said Watson, rubbing his face exasperatedly.

"Oh, come now, Watson, you're a doctor, now get over here and help me."

Watson went over to the bed to retrieve the key. He removed the pillow and alas, there was the shiny little bit of silver metal. Watson picked it up, brushing against Sherlock as he did so. The action sent subtle shivers through both men, and each tried desperately to hide it from the other. Watson was headed around to Sherlock's hands when he was struck with a sudden realisation: so long as he had this key, Sherlock was in his mercy. Holmes was his to command. So long as the two were in this situation, Watson could do what he had always dreamed of doing. He could, should he need to, in the morning dismiss it as having been drugged himself, but this, the opportunity presented to him on a silver platter, was far too good to just pass up.

Watson chuckled to himself excitedly as a large, mischievous grin spread across his face. Now, more than ever, was the perfect excuse for Watson. Drunk with power and lust impairing his judgement, he decided not to think or to reason, only to act.

He took off his hat and coat and casually tossed them aside. Sherlock looked confused.

"Uhm, Watson? This isn't tea time. I would like to get down, if you don't mind. I've lost all feeling in my limbs and it's rather unpleasant."

Watson ignored him. He unbuttoned and removed his waistcoat as he walked over and locked the door. He lit all the candles in the room, knowing they'd soon be in complete darkness otherwise. He whistled as he loosened his tie and closed all the curtains in the room, making doubly sure that not a single living soul could see inside the room.

"What are you doing, Watson? Why are you closing all the curtains?" Sherlock asked, less worried than truly curious.

Watson stood directly in front of the bed and, by extension, Sherlock. He pulled off his tie and began unbuttoning his shirt.

"My my my, Holmes, are you losing your touch? World's greatest detective and you haven't yet deduced?" Watson asked playfully. "We're about to partake in some rather amorous and quite frowned upon activities," he said in a low, husky voice. "I have to close the curtains. We musn't be caught."

He removed his shirt and climbed over Sherlock, straddling him.

"What are you doing? Watson, I don't think I-" Watson interrupted him with a rough, heavy kiss. At first Holmes was shocked, but immediately he began kissing back hungrily.

No time was wasted warming up to each other, they kissed passionately as though it wasn't the first. In a way, it wasn't. The subtle innuendos they'd played off each other since the day they'd met were finally being put to reality: the desperate dream had come true for both.

John kissed down Sherlock's jawline, nipping and biting at every bit of skin he came in contact with. It wasn't long before he grew possessive and little, dark marks cropped up in his wake.

He bit and scraped against Sherlock's shoulders, and only growling groans could be heard from the detective beneath.

Watson moved to remove his trousers, already feeling Holmes hard against him. Free of the fabric constraints, John began to rut his hips down into Sherlock's, increasing the friction between them and eliciting gasps from both.

Sherlock struggled in his restraints, rocking his hips up into John's, straining to break free, to run his hands over his new-found lover's skin, to feel him, to touch him. Bruises had begun to form on his wrists, and they had only just gotten started.

Watson's kisses grew in number and trailed farther down Sherlock's body. Holmes groaned in pleasure and anticipation as John's mouth sauntered nearer and nearer where he wanted it to be. Watson came dangerously close to Sherlock's painfully hard erection when he brought himself up to re-position.

Sherlock let out a small whine of desperation at the contact (or, more rather, lack thereof).

Sherlock had wanted to tell his old friend how he felt for a long, long time. He began to think that now would be a more than perfect time, but he found himself unable to form words. Only rushed, raspy breaths escaped from his throat as he longed for the former soldier to press on. Only the beautiful sounds of not-quite synchronized gasps, the rustle of the sheets, the slight scrape of skin against skin, and the erotic metal clanging of the handcuffs filled the large room, and both men found that those sounds were more than words enough.

John let his hand gently trail down where his mouth just was, slowly but surely inching closer to the warmest spot. He put pressure on that spot, making Sherlock's breaths more ragged still. He let his other hand trail up and into Sherlock's mouth, hoping he knew enough to take the hint. And surely he did. Sherlock stifled a moan as the pressure increased, and knowing what was to come next as he sucked lightly and suggestively on John's fingers.

John's hand left Sherlock's mouth and moved for another spot, his newly wet fingers to provide some semblance of lubrication. He was tracing them around Sherlock's thighs, sending shivers through the detective. They were drawing closer.

John pressed one finger into Sherlock as he began to prep him.

"Oh, God, John, just skip it!" Holmes said desperately, between gasps.

"Are you sure?" the doctor asked, genuinely concerned. He didn't care what Sherlock had to say next, he, with his medical knowledge, at least knew enough to realise skipping preparation was not an option.

The carnal look of sheer need in Sherlock's eyes was enough for John to rethink his choice, but he didn't. Going against Sherlock's request, he pressed a second finger into him. As he was doing what Sherlock clearly found tedious and unnecessary, John made sure, once he expertly located the man's prostate, to brush up against it and distract Sherlock from what he was doing. After he had a third finger in and was teasing a fourth, he felt Sherlock was sufficiently prepared. He looked around a moment and spotted a bottle of lotion on the bedside table, thinking it would suffice to lubricate him enough. He spread it over himself before he positioned himself at Sherlock's entrance, and ever so slowly and gently pushed in.

Sherlock bit down on his tongue hard enough to draw blood in pain. John remained still for a moment, then leaned forward to catch Holmes in a fiery kiss. Tasting the metallic copper sting on his tongue appealed to the animal instincts in Watson, making him then thrust unrelentingly into the detective.

After a little while, the pain melted away into immense and unexplainable pleasure for Sherlock, and husky moans had begun to escape from his chest. Again, he fought his cruel steel restraints wanting desperately to dig his nails into John's back, tangle his fingers through his hair, take a vice grip on his hips, anything. His wrists began to bleed with his strenuous attempts.

After a bit, John began to settle into a quick and steady pace, a tempo akin to his racing heartbeat.

The pleasure for both escalated exponentially over the next minute or so, leading up to the moment they'd both been waiting years and years for.

It wasn't long before John was sent over the edge, releasing into Sherlock. Hearing the growl that came from the man atop him sent Sherlock into orgasm just moments thereafter. Before he lost all strength, Watson reached up and unlocked Holmes from his bindings. His hands immediately slapped onto the sides of the doctor's face and pulled him in for a passionate, rough, but gentle kiss. He looked straight into Watson's eyes and merely nodded and smiled.

And that was all either needed: the both knew they didn't need words to express the love each obviously felt toward the other. And that night, entwined in one another's arms, the men slept peacefully, wrapped in warmth and savouring their night together, not caring in the slightest about the implications and consequences their actions had in the outside world, nor about the complications of keeping their new relationship under wraps.

However, they'd awaken to find that there were many...


	2. The Day After

**Yeah! New chapter! Here ya go, guys! Hope you enjoy! (In case you can't tell, yes, I do LOVE cliff hangers. Deal with it.)**

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The detective was the first of the two men to wake the next day. He stirred and groaned and rubbed his eyes. He looked around the room, still lying down where he was, and took a moment to figure his surroundings upon waking. The setting seemed vaguely familiar for some reason. There was a strange discomfort in his wrist that he couldn't quite place, and he was sore in places he never thought he could be sore. Suddenly, the memories of the previous night came flooding back to him. Everything, all at once, and a broad grin stretched across his face. Sherlock turned to, as he expected, find himself curled up on John's chest. He looked up at the man, sound asleep. The peaceful, restful look upon his face was a stark contrast to its normal worried features. It was a quite welcome sight. Sherlock sighed contently and placed one his hands over John's chest and the other on his wrists, feeling his heartbeat on each of the points.

"Acquired a love of checking pulses, have we, Sherlock?" John asked, eyes still closed and breathing deep and slow, startling the man atop him. He chuckled a bit. Obviously Sherlock had thought him to still be asleep. He opened his eyes and looked down, and with his free hand he tugged his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "Good morning," he said quietly.

Sherlock said nothing, he merely readjusted himself so his head rested in the crook of John's neck. The doctor kissed the top of the detective's head as the pair enjoyed what little they could see of the break of sunlight that barely peeked passed the curtains.

After a little while, John looked down at his chest to grab Sherlock's hand when he noticed the dried blood and bruising around his wrist. He was shocked and appalled at first, wondering who on Earth could have done this to his Holmes, shortly thereafter realizing that it had been he himself who inflicted such pain.

"Oh, God, Holmes, I...I'm so sorry," he said, sitting up and pulling Sherlock's wrist closer to him so as to see it better. "Are they both this bad? I...oh, God..."

Sherlock looked dumbly down at his other wrist. It was, in fact, just as bad, though Sherlock had barely noticed. He had felt only slight pain, though he wasn't sure he'd call it that, and the wounds were no worse than anything he had ever inflicted upon himself. With the hand Watson held, Holmes cupped his chin and pulled him in for a tender kiss.

"Don't worry about it at all," he said sweetly as he stared straight into Watson's ice blue eyes, "I feel no pain, and even if I did it would be more than worth it."

Watson smiled, though the traces of worry were still blatantly written across his face. "Well at least let me dress these."

The look on Sherlock's face spoke for him that he wished John not fret, prompting Watson to say "Holmes, I don't want these getting any worse than they already are."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but complied.

John got up to acquire the necessary supplies to tend to the wounds. He flitted about the room a bit and found a first-aid kit tucked under a wardrobe in the corner.

He was finished rather quickly, making Sherlock realize for the first time just how good the doctor really was at his profession. It was rather impressive. "There, much better," John said, looking down, satisfied. He was met with a kiss as he looked up.

"Thank you," Holmes said.

"My pleasure," Watson said back with a smile.

Sherlock got up from the bed and stretched and groaned once more. "I could definitely use a nice warm bath," he said as the aching in his muscles became apparent to his lover. He headed into the bathroom and began to draw a bath.

Watson just sat in bed and watched the man, his graceful movements. The way each little muscle in his body stretched and contracted to function and to express was suddenly very fascinating, especially now that every muscle was exposed for him to see. What perfection. What beauty. Then it hit him.

"Hey, now!" he said, getting up rather quickly and making his way over to the bathroom. "You have to be careful! I just patched you up!"

"Well then, doctor, you're going to have to come in and supervise..." came the playful reply.

**_*Later that day*_**

They were back at the flat. John watched as Sherlock went back up the stairs and to his room. He went across the hall to the sitting room after putting on the kettle. He sat down and picked up the newspaper he had left the day before. Just as it was. Just as it had always been, for the past who knows how many years. He sat there, just staring blankly at his newspaper. He couldn't read, he couldn't concentrate. He couldn't get Sherlock off his mind...

He kept thinking of his idiotic flatmate. Of his mannerisms and his ways...and his addictions...and he couldn't help but be plagued with the horrid thought that the previous night was merely an intoxicated mistake on Sherlock's part.

He shook the thought from his head. "That can't be true," he said to himself. "You're being paranoid, John. You saw him, the way he melted under your touch. It's obvious he loves you..."

He put the paper down and rubbed his eyes. "It's not true..." he said once more. "It can't be. You're more than just one of his anonymous lovers. You know him, he knows you. You're intimately close. Impossibly close. You're not just a random shag," he said, getting angrier at himself as he progressed for having such thoughts. "That's not what that was!" he nearly shouted, standing up. His shoulders slumped and he sighed heavily, looking over at the door to Sherlock's room just beyond the staircase. "Or was it?" he said softly...

Now he had left himself to wonder what life would be like from here on in. Would it be the same as before? Would they forget that night had ever happened? Would life be awkward? Would the pair be reduced to uncomfortable nods in the hall, desperately trying to avoid one another? Or would they carry on as a couple? They would have to hide it, of course. That's what he had hoped for, to have his Sherlock. To be happy, regardless of the technical dangers of the situation. John was dying to know the repercussions of the night's amorous activities, but his answers lay in the events of the next few days. He would just have to wait and see...


	3. Thoughts on the Matter

He sat up in his room and just stared at the wall. The room was dark and musty smelling, as usual, with no fresh air or outside light. And what a mess it was, things scattered about, clothes and papers and who knows what else buried under a thin layer of dust. Of course, none of this bothered him. It was just how he lived.

He sat in his chair, violin in one hand and pipe in the other, and pondered. He'd be sat there for hours, not speaking a word, lost in his mind. "Deductions," he finally thought aloud, "What might we deduce about last night?" He began to talk to himself in hopes he'd be able to work things out. "Take first the sensation, for example. Anticipation."

He stopped and thought deeper. "No, curiosity. Ah, yes, your insatiable curiosity is what came first," he began, standing up. "The sensations. They were far more real than any hallucination you have experienced, narrowing down the possibility that the encounter was something conjured in your head." He started to pace in the small space in front of his chair. "Though, it is possible a NEW drug was introduced in the wine that that insufferable woman force-fed you...I could have been in a vivid state of lucidity, left to have my own sick fantasies play out before my eyes, which would undoubtedly place the fantasies in my head in the first place, making me admit that I have them. And, the hallucination would have played out with an unusually realistic sense of time..." He took a few steps forward and tripped over an old tea tray. He landed face first on the floor. "Hmph..." he muttered.

He rolled over and rubbed his head. "But what about him? Let's say, for argument's sake, that what happened was a completely real, sober encounter. What would his motivation have been?" He shut his eyes and pressed his closed hands to his lips. "Emotion, perhaps? Something that's lost on me, something I've never quite had a firm grasp on. Perhaps our dear pal Doctor Watson was experiencing some sort of attraction. Perhaps it's the same sort of attraction you've been feeling for him. There's something more, though, something deeper. Something...warm and fuzzy...makes me feel diseased...I've been told that's what love feels like...does John feel the same? That would make the feeling mutual...making the two of us...in love?"

Sherlock sat upright put his head in his hands. "No, no it couldn't have been. John is human. John has urges. John has not seen his female in a few months. John was no doubt taking advantage of a decidedly useful situation."

He looked over at the door and wondered where exactly Watson was beyond it. "But...now what?" he asked himself, flopping back onto the floor and staring blankly up at the ceiling.

*Later that evening*

"Watson..." Sherlock mumbled. He had fallen asleep on his spot on the floor.

"Watson..." he said a bit louder. He tossed and turned about the floor, grumbling, constantly shifting uncomfortably. His breathing became quickly more laboured until he was nearly hyperventilating.

"Watson!" he yelled, sitting bolt upright.

"Holmes!" the doctor said, rushing in the moment he heard the detective calling his name. He found Sherlock in a cold sweat on the floor and immediately checked the surrounding area for syringes or mysterious bottles.

"Watson. Oh, Watson, you're here," he said, pulling John in to him and not letting go.

"Yes, yes, Sherlock, I'm here," he said, slightly shocked at first at the sudden embrace, but quickly returning it to his friend and petting his head. "What is it? What's wrong?" he asked.

"I had...the most horrible...dream..." he said between breaths, the last word coming across as more of a question.

"It's okay now. I'm here. It's okay, it's over now..." John said, the comforting words spilling out more easily than he'd expected.

"Watson..." Sherlock said, pulling away, a puzzled look painted across his face.

"Yes?" John said slowly.

"You're worried," Sherlock said, very matter-of-factly, leaning in closer and studying John's eyes.

"What? Of course I'm worried. I just found you lying on the floor in a cold sweat screaming my name! Not exactly a peachy situation to be finding you in, considering your reputation."

"No no no, not about that. About something different. You've BEEN worried. It's not freshly introduced."  
"Wait...what?"

Sherlock leaned in even closer and inhaled sharply. "You smell different."

"What about your dream? What happened, you were practically having a panic attack!"

"What? Oh, that. Yes, well, it was just a dream. I'm fine," Sherlock said, standing and picking up his violin bow. "You, on the other hand, doctor" he said, pointing his bow in Watson's face, "are not."

"What are you talking about, Holmes?" he said, standing up.

"You usually smell of newspapers and cigar smoke, but not today. No, today you smell of tea and ash, and your fingers are burned, presumably from putting the kettle on repeatedly. Just how much tea have you been drinking of late to calm yourself, sir, how much?!"

"You need to just sit down and tell me what it is you've taken this time, Holmes," he said, grabbing Sherlock by the shoulders and spinning him round to sit on the bed.

"I have absolutely nothing in my system, thank you very much," Sherlock said with mock offense.

"Uh-huh," John said, checking Sherlock's eyes and pulse.

"Oh, will you stop that?" Sherlock said, swatting Watson away, crossing his arms childishly.

Both of the men now stood, staring each other down, inspecting for little things, little discrepancies in appearance or air, trying desperately to figure out what was wrong with the other. Sherlock gave Watson a challenging look, almost daring him to make a conclusion.

"Oh, I give up!" Watson said, preparing to storm out of the room.

Sherlock looked down at his hands, then up at John. "Wait!" Holmes shouted as Watson was about to pass the threshold out of the room.

John sighed and turned around. "What, Holmes?" he said, an irked tone penetrating his voice.

Sherlock looked up at him, looking truly puzzled, absolutely confused, and almost frightened. John had never seen him like this before, and it was concerning. "What now?" he asked softly, staring down at his feet.

John was taken aback by his inquiry, but, knowing already his exact meaning, answered honestly. "I don't know," he said. He sighed and rubbed his head, then turned and left.


	4. A Double Murder, Watson!

**A/N: So terribly sorry this took so bloody long to write! You can lynch me now. But here's chapter four. I promise the next chapter won't take me this long! Didn't get to proofread much, let me know if you see any mistakes. And I'm always open to new chapter (or even new fic) suggestions or requests!**

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It had been a few days since last Holmes and Watson spoke, their silence being anything but comfortable. They had done their best to avoid one another and avoid awkward confrontations, though in their time of solitude, each was given the chance to work out his feelings and his thoughts. They'd spent a lot of time holed up in their rooms, away from civilisation and the burden of speaking to one another. Sherlock was deathly afraid of something escalating between them, something that would tear them apart and fracture their already seemingly cracked friendship.

They had spent three full days in avoidance of one another. However, some time during the third day, Sherlock had received a telegram from Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, in which it was said he would meet Sherlock at the flat at a specific time that day. "Watson!" Sherlock called, nearly tripping down the stairs with his telegram from Lestrade in his hand. "Watson!"

"What is it now, Holmes?" John asked, exasperatedly, from his spot in his chair. He looked over the top of his newspaper expectantly, acting as though those three days hadn't happened, as though everything was all well and good and nothing was at all wrong.

"Watson," Sherlock said breathless from excitement and the premise of getting out of the flat. He, too, acted as though he had nothing to worry about, as though nothing had been going on. "Double murder. We have been summoned."

"You have been summoned," Watson protested, though he got up to get ready to leave. He wanted to get some fresh air, and getting Holmes out on a case to exercise his mind wasn't a bad idea, either.

"We," Sherlock protested. Yes, the telegram was addressed to only him, but to him that automatically included Watson. It always included Watson. They would always be a we to him, not matter what transpired because of their little tryst. Both the men retrieved their coats and together they set off.

A hansom cab was waiting for them outside, and in it was Lestrade as he said he would be.

"Gentlemen," he greeted as they entered. He made nothing of the fact that the pair, who generally sat opposite one another, were sitting quite close on the same side. This, of course, was not a conscious choice, and it was, thankfully, either overlooked or ignored by the detective inspector. Upon realising what he'd done, Holmes was quick to correct his behaviour. So as not to rouse suspicion, he slid farther away and over to the window.

"Details," he said tersely, not bringing his gaze from the window and what was lying just beyond.

"Well," Lestrade began, "as was stated, double murder. Both victims approximately of the same age. They were undressed and redressed post-mortem and clothed to match down to the stitch, each wearing a somewhat generic waistcoat and trousers. It is clear the murderer went to great lengths to ensure that the two were near identical, as their hair was cut and dyed and a prosthetic beard was applied to one."

Holmes began to ponder, tuning out everything else Lestrade had to say as he knew it would be irrelevant, and Watson watched him intently, nearly staring at him in admiration before he realised what he was doing. He righted himself, clearing his throat, and looked over to Lestrade, about to say something before Holmes spoke up.

"Twins," he said, simply and to no one in particular, as though it was the most obvious thing in the word, as though he was just pointing out a pair that were walking along the street passed the cab. He was exasperated that he would have been called upon for something so obvious, but, then again, he did suppose that, with the raging incompetence on the part of Scotland Yard, it was no surprise.

"No, the victims weren't twins..." Lestrade said, sounding almost full of himself in correcting Sherlock.

"Not the victims, Lestrade, the murderers." He turned to face Lestrade. "Tell me: did they have similar, mirroring wounds that were not entirely identical?"

Lestrade shrugged. "I didn't check that they were similar," he said, thinking nothing of Sherlock's assumption.

Sherlock sighed and faced the window once more, thankfully keeping his mouth shut about the 'lacking intellect' of the Yard and the sheer carelessness of their friend the detective inspector.

The rest of the ride was spent in contemplative silence, each man having a different thing weighing on his mind. Lestrade was thinking of the murders, making feeble attempts at stringing together facts and trying to work out how Sherlock was able to come up with the idea of the murderers being twins. John was thinking of all that was going on between him and his companion, and occupying Sherlock's mind was a muddled, mixed up, jumbled mess of both the subjects.

Holmes was close to slipping his hand into John's, just to be able to think, he told himself. To calm his mind on one subject so that he may focus on the other, the one of more paramount importance. If he could allow himself to touch Watson, he would be able to easier focus on the task at hand. But in the presence of Lestrade, he knew he couldn't So, for the time being, he did his best to push Watson from his mind.

When they arrived at the crime scene, Holmes was out of the cab almost before it pulled to a complete stop. He hurried over to the bodies and began his examination, mumbling to himself, or possibly to Watson, who was still far behind.

"Just as I thought," he said as John approached. "Look." He pointed out that he was, in fact, correct in his prediction that the pair of victims would have mirroring wounds. They had both attained stab wounds to their right side, just below the ribcage, but the length and depth of each varied, as did the precise weapon with which they were created. " I've been keeping track of a rather suspicious set of insubordinate twins of late. The two had been engaging in mostly mirroring petty crimes, nothing of interest. What they sought, in recent years leading up to this point, was the infamy associated with being a criminal, or in their minds, a villain. Story book fans, these were. Fantasy lovers. Caught up in fairy tales and dreams, taking a particular liking to the dark side of villainy. I have no doubt that this, what we are witnessing, is the result of their latest ploy to meet the public eye. This is their handiwork, or at least what was made to appear to be some semblance of it. The two are weak, they couldn't actually bring themselves up to kill a man, let alone two. Lestrade, you may want to pay a visit to the nearest medical facility, I think you'll find they're missing two cadavers."

Holmes stood, smiling and looking quite triumphant. Of course, the police would not believe him until that medical facility was contacted, but he was quite sure that was what happened, and they would catch their perpetrators should they do their jobs and keep an eye on the lower end scum of the city, tracking the mirroring petty crimes to the same hub which Holmes assigned as their headquarters. In his pride, Holmes made the irreparable mistake of slipping his hand down into John's, entwining their fingers. In the presence of the police, no less. What was worse still was that John made the irreparable mistake of not doing anything to correct the situation.

Lestrade and a few stray officers looked down at their entwined fingers in awe and bewilderment. By the time anyone was able to say anything, correcting the situation and hiding it as though it was nothing, a handshake, an accidental touch, was too little too late.

"Are you two..." Lestrade stammered, searching for the right words, the words Sherlock and John themselves had been searching for the past few days. "What is this?" The words were not uttered.

Sherlock looked down at his hand, realising what he had done and willing himself not to react. Quick on his feet, he said "This?" while gesturing down at their hands. He then leaned all his weight onto John, acting faint and incapable. "Oh, I've been weak of late. Not eating, I h-" Watson played along and interjected with a convincing eye roll "Ingesting things he ought not ingest..." Perhaps it wasn't too late to make it appear to be something else, and it would appear John was quick on his feet, as well.

John wrapped an arm around Sherlock and supported him. "Come on, you're lucky I let you out for this. We need to get you home. Mary's waiting for me." He nodded his goodbye in the direction of Lestrade and hurried over to the nearest hansom cab before they could be questioned.

Once the cab was around the corner and out of the sight of the awestruck police, John and Sherlock began giggling triumphantly. Sherlock leaned over and closed the curtains in the doors, and when he was sure nobody could see them he leaned over and rested his head on John's shoulder. "Nice touch about Mary," he said. He knew very well that Mary wouldn't be back from her stay in Germany for another two or so weeks.

Surprised by, but not against, the new contact, Watson wrapped his arm around Holmes and gently stroked his hair. They remained in a comfortable silence for a few moments before John spoke up.

"Holmes?" he asked, slowly and hesitantly, wondering if he would even have the nerve to ask the question that had been, for the last few days, bogging down his mind.

"Yes?" said Sherlock, who was curious about the obvious tone of worry permeating his doctor's voice.

"Lestrade was about to say...or ask...well...what are we?" he asked after a moment of silence, and his question was chased with a moment more, spent in quiet pondering and thought.

"I don't know what we are, John," Sherlock said after taking the time to think about it. He had been thinking about it a lot of late, though he still wasn't able to formulate an answer. "We're just...us. We're not in any way conventional. You are engaged, I have my work. And yet we have begun something...outside the realm of understanding of most people. There isn't a name for what we have, though, in any normal sort of circumstance, I suppose, for lack of a better term, we could be called...a...couple."

John smiled a bright, happy smile and feathered a kiss to Sherlock's temple. A couple. He was more than okay with that. "Right. A couple. Okay then," he said gladly, and the rest of the cab ride was spent in comfortable silence.

Both the men knew that keeping what they had under wraps would be extremely difficult, especially now that they knew what it was they had, or, at least, some semblance of it. Had it been up to him, had he known for a fact that they wouldn't be met with violence, Sherlock would have no aversions to letting everyone know he was John's, he hadn't any aversions to public displays of affection. But in that day and age, what he and John had was considered a form of social taboo. It simply wasn't done. A man was to be with a woman, that was it. That was how it had been for centuries, and society showed no hint of change for anywhere in the near future. Sure, there were certain parts of the city and of the country where what they had wouldn't be looked twice at, but those were parts the pair seldom travelled through. Not everyone was willing to turn a blind eye and just ignore it. Fuelled by their own fervent, foolish beliefs, people would not hesitate to inflict pain on those who were deemed 'freaks' or 'unnatural.' Sherlock, being his own, uninhibited self, already had it bad enough, he didn't want to drag John down into that. Ignorance was the worst of the epidemics, and Sherlock would in no way purposefully subject John to that sort of torture, he didn't deserve it. He knew what he and John shared was something not accidental. It was no mistake of nature, nor was it a choice, it was...well, it was what it was. Call it love or lust or passion, at its roots was something beautiful, a bond that would not, could not be broken, not by law, nor any fit of rage or act of violence they would meet. Sherlock knew that he would, no matter what anyone said, love John, and that was all he needed. So, he would do all that he could to keep what they had a secret from everyone. Not Mycroft nor Mrs. Hudson nor Mary need know a thing**.**


End file.
